


The White Flag is a Good Red

by ncruuk



Series: Behind the Beret - being Bernie [2]
Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncruuk/pseuds/ncruuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following on from 'Looks Familiar, is Seen to be New', Bernie's makes one final attempt at a peace offering to Serena, only instead of an olive branch, it's more of a grape vine. </p><p>[Serena and Bernie friendship establishment, and more of my 'headcanon' for Bernie Wolfe and Alex Dawson in my 'universe' that concludes with my story - 'In the Wee, Small Hours of the Morning.  Reading 'Looks Familiar, is Seen to be New' will help this make sense, but isn't essential.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Flag Waved

**Author's Note:**

> The characters you recognise from the TV show are not mine, but the original characters of Bernie's father, grandmother and Afghan patients are my own creations.
> 
> This was predominantly written after the events of 'The Cowards Way' and posted before the events of 'Running Out'.
> 
> I am neither a soldier or a medic, but have tried to create a story which is readable and plausible, based on my research for this particular story and years of general interest/reading. However, if there's anything that is hideously wrong and detracting from the overall read, please let me know.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy...

“Serena Campbell?”

 

“Depends who wants to know,” said Fletch, not looking away from the computer screen as he tried, for the fourth time, to get the patient record to load properly.

 

“Delivery, for Serena Campbell.  Can you sign for it mate?” The courier dumped the box on the desk with a rather heavy thump that served to distract Fletch from the computer.

 

“Oi, careful!” He turned to the courier, expecting to have to launch into a lecture about not thinking he was easily confused with a postman, only to change his mind when he saw that the box was a wine box and he realised that the thump had actually been the sound of glass bottles being jostled inside the box.  “You’ll end up in here as a patient if you keep up like that!” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but it was the best he could come up with after his initial outburst now that he was actually interested in the delivery.  “What is it?”

 

“Are you Serena Campbell?” asked the courier, reaching for his handheld computer terminal in order to start the delivery completion process.

 

“Do I look like a Serena?” asked Fletch, immediately forgetting his resolution to ‘play nice’ as he pointedly scratched his beard.

 

“Dunno, never met one.  Will you sign for it?”

 

“Yeah…” Fletch took the stylus and scratched an approximation of his initials on the tiny screen, “any idea what it is?” He handed back the terminal, “only I’ll get a grilling.”

 

“I’m just the courier, pick up and drop off.”  And with a final shrug, the courier put the terminal back in the holder on his belt and left AAU.

 

“Thanks, mate,” muttered Fletch, looking at the box that was sitting on top of a pile of charts, decidedly in the way and out of place.

 

“Are we having a party you didn’t ask me about?”

 

“Ah, Serena.”  Fletch looked up at his boss who had just come out of theatre, “how is the lad?”

 

“Doing fine, Raf’s just finishing up, and don’t change the subject.  What’s this?” she asked again, nodding in the direction of the box.

 

“A parcel, a courier just dropped it off.  For you I mean.”

 

“Fletch! You shouldn’t have…”

 

“No offence, but I didn’t, well, I did…” Fletch scratched his neck, wondering how he managed to trip himself up like this quite as often as he did, “I signed for it, but didn’t send it.  Want me to put it in your office?” he offered, trying to dig himself out of his accidental hole.

 

“I know I may only be but a humble surgeon…” began Serena, picking up the box which, based on how it clanked appeared to not only look like a box of wine bottles but also sound like a box of wine bottles,  “and a woman to boot, but I think I can make it to my office, thank you!”  And with a quick, sharp smile, she left a somewhat dumbstruck Fletch and headed, with the box, to her office.

 

“What did I do?” asked Fletch to no one in particular as he watched her shut the door to her office firmly behind her.

 

* * *

 

  
  


Safely ensconced in her office behind the firmly shut door, Serena dumped the box on her on her desk and proceeded to ignore it whilst she made herself some tea.  Mug in hand, she’d sunk into her desk chair and just sat, perfectly still, enjoying the peace and quiet for a minute or so.  

 

Her meditative moment was interrupted by the surprisingly loud buzzing of her mobile phone signalling she’d received a message.  Expecting it to be from Jason, she was pleasantly surprised to see it was from her daughter.  Firing off a quick response (which would no doubt surprise Elinor, who generally assumed her mother deliberately waited before replying to even the simplest text), she glanced at the rest of the notifications, quickly becoming absorbed in methodically reading, acknowledging and replying to Jason’s messages.  It had taken a bit to adjust to having Jason living with her but, after a few missteps, they had started to find a routine and a rhythm that worked for them both.  

 

One of the early discoveries that they’d made together was text messaging - the first time Serena had been forced to work an unexpected double shift, she’d come home understandably exhausted, only to then be overwhelmed with how much ‘thinking’ Jason had been saving up to share with her.  Honest enough to know she was far from perfect at the best of times, never mind at 7am after being at work for almost 24 hours, Serena’s ability to cope with Jason’s information ‘assault’ as she stepped through the door was at a record low that particular morning.  However, after some fortifying tea and a energy-draining long conversation, she’d managed to broach the topic of text messaging to Jason -  could text message her as he had his thoughts for her, instead of saving them all up for when he next saw her?

 

After a few false starts, they’d managed to establish their new routine.  Not only had it meant she got a warning about her kitchen table being covered in with all the instruction manuals for every last piece of electrical equipment she owned (the clocks had changed, the lack of consistent timekeeping in her house had required correction apparently), but she could also, if AAU gave her the chance, reply to some of his questions before she got home.  This was especially helpful if it was the sort of question that sometimes was best answered after a bit of research and/or input from Raf or Fletch.  It was as a result of one such question last week that had resulted in their change from text messaging to a messenger app (Serena had no idea what the little green pictogram represented, but it was what Jason now used, on the advice of Raf and Fletch once he’d discovered he could provide both photographic and geographic context to his message).

  
  


Draining the last of her tea, Serena put the mug back on her desk and, in doing so, caught sight of the mystery box once again.  This time however, curiosity quickly got the better of her and, after finding no helpful clues as to who the sender was on the outside of the box, she slit open the brown parcel tape holding the top closed.  It was only after she’d opened the flaps and peered inside that she realised she might have accidentally forgotten to follow and/or broken at least three hospital policies, starting with the receiving of personal deliveries at the hospital and failing to alert Security to the surprise receipt of an unexpected and unidentified package.

 

Sitting on top of the bottles, held in place with some Sellotape, was a folded sheet of paper addressed to ‘Serena’ in large capitals.  Pulling it away from the bottle it was stuck to, and becoming increasingly intrigued by the mystery, Serena unfolded the piece of straightforward plain white copy paper and started to read the neatly printed capitals.

 

SERENA,

 

THIS IS NOT INTENDED TO BE THE APOLOGY THAT I OWE YOU AND YOU DESERVE - I WOULD PREFER TO DO THAT IN PERSON IF I MAY?  AND PROVIDE SOME SORT OF EXPLANATION AND RETURN OF CONFIDENCES, IF WELCOME?

 

I HOPE THE WINE IS OF AN ACCEPTABLE STANDARD - I LEAVE IT UP TO YOU WHETHER YOU USE IT TO THROW OVER ME OR DRINK.

 

BERNIE

 

* * *

  
  


Her phone made the annoying text message sound when she was half way through ironing her black shirt.  Putting the iron down on the ironing board, Bernie pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked to see who it was from.  To her surprise, it wasn’t actually a text message, but a message from the messenger app that she’d let the kids install on her phone before she went to Afghanistan - she could never remember what it was called, but had just accepted that the little green pictogram meant she could send and receive messages and photographs (not that she ever did) with Cameron and Charlotte whilst overseas without it costing a fortune.  

 

Curious, Bernie unlocked her phone screen and, taking a steadying breath, opened the message, not having expected to hear from either of children as their father had clearly informed them they were to not contact her.  Not bothering to look at the sender’s name (she’d never really understood why they insisted on using whatever nickname their friends were favouring that week as their contact name, rather than the perfectly sensible names they’d been given by their parents), she read the message.

 

_ Invitation accepted, and I’ll drink the wine, thank you - looks far too good to throw.   _

 

Surprised, Bernie double checked that the message was from Serena Campbell, although it was improbable that it could be from anyone else, since she’d not sent wine to anyone else.

 

Unconsciously shifting her stance so she was stood ‘at ease’, Bernie forced herself to focus her thoughts and work out what she wanted to reply, recognising that time was of the essence - it was unlikely that AAU would let Serena remain in proximity of her phone for very long.  Her white flag signalling a willingness to lower her defences had been acknowledged… this was one of her last bridges and it was already burning.  Could she rebuild it before it was completely burnt and had crumbled from beneath her?


	2. Good Red makes for Conversation

“Coming!”  Bernie looked around the small living room, satisfying herself that everything was neat and tidy, before venturing down the small hallway to her front door which she opened.  “Serena, hi.”  

 

“Sorry I’m late,” began Serena, holding out a bottle wrapped in tissue paper with a stiff arm, “this is for you.”

  
“I…” Automatically, Bernie accepted the bottle and looked at it, perplexed.  “Thank you, you…” Confused, she looked back up at Serena before realising that they were still stood in her doorway, “...come in!” she insisted, stepping back and holding the front door open wide.

 

“Thanks…” Serena wiped her shoes on the doormat and stepped far enough into the hallway so Bernie could close the front door behind her.  “This is…” she looked around the hallway, trying to spot something she could politely comment on.

 

“Pest free and not his dead mother’s house,” observed Bernie dryly, knowing that there was nothing about the hallway that could be turned into a compliment.  

 

“And by pest you mean?” 

 

“Actual vermin, although now you mention it…” Bernie took Serena’s coat and hung it on one of the empty coat hooks that were screwed into the wall behind the front door, clearly put up by a previous resident of the flat who had more outerwear to hang up than Bernie.  “The description does apply to Marcus too.  Shall we?” she gestured in the direction of the door off the hallway to their left.  “I would offer a guided tour, but…”  the hand not holding the paper wrapped bottle disappeared into her trouser pocket and she chewed her lip for a moment, as if trying to gauge how much to share before straightening up and saying, “it’s a shoebox with internal walls.”

 

“Not a fan of open plan then?” asked Serena as she followed Bernie into a small living room that was only marginally less sparsely furnished than the hall had been.

 

“I…”  Bernie stopped in front of the coffee table, and put the bottle Serena had brought down on it, next to the simple clear glass vase that had some blue anemones in it and the open bottle of red wine that stood next to two wine glasses.  “No.  That is…” Bernie frowned as she looked around the room before looking at Serena, the frown now replaced with a more thoughtful expression, although Serena was struck by how haunted Bernie looked, as if she’d just seen a room filled with ghosts.  “Have you ever been on a military base?”

 

“No.”

 

“Base quarters, even for officers, were generally not much more than a room about this size.”

 

“I see.”  Serena looked at the room again, this time trying to see it the way she thought Bernie saw it.

 

“Sorry, I should have said, please sit down!” Bernie gestured to the small two seater couch that was going to be cosy if they both tried to sit on it.  “I’m taking the beanbag,” she added, pointing out the beanbag that was next to the coffee table, “and no, you can’t argue,” she added, correctly anticipating Serena’s protestations.  She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to order her thoughts whilst waiting for Serena to sit down on the couch, before addressing the flowers, unable to make eye contact with her guest.  “I’m not very good at this,” she admitted finally, when she realised she didn’t actually know what to say next.

 

“This?” asked Serena cautiously, beginning to realise that what she actually knew about Bernie was mainly founded on assumptions, assumptions that she’d made and never really given Bernie a chance to correct, in part perhaps because Bernie hadn’t known she’d been making them.

 

“Being a civilian.  Red wine?”

 

“Thanks…” Serena watched as Bernie poured a generous measure into each glass before holding out one for Serena to take.  “Thank you.”  Serena accepted the offered glass, realising that the label on the bottle matched two of the bottles she’d received earlier that day.  “And thank you again for the wine.”

 

“Thank you for coming round,” Bernie raised her glass in anticipation of her first sip, “you’re my first visitor.”

 

“The first of many, I’m sure,” said Serena, raising her glass and mirroring her host’s.

 

“I doubt it,” said Bernie, surprising Serena with how she said it, which was without any trace of pity or disappointment.  

 

Uncertain what to say, Serena took a sip of her wine, savouring the rich flavour and realising that not only had the bottles looked too good to throw, they were going to be too good to drink on anything less than special occasions.  Taking another, proper drink of the wine, she somehow managed to miss Bernie’s descent into the beanbag, because by the time she’d put her glass back on the coffee table, her host was sitting down.

 

“That’s more than just ‘red wine’...” she began, trying to restart their conversation in what she hoped was a slightly more neutral topic.

 

“Good.  It was recommended to me by…” Bernie wondered how best to describe Colour-Sergeant Smedley to Serena, “...a father of a patient.”

 

“That sounds like a story…” suggested Serena, reaching for her wine glass again and taking the opportunity to shuffle into a more comfortable position on the little couch.  “Is it shareable?” she asked carefully, knowing from her experiences with patients that there still ‘stories’ that, even years later, were not ones she felt comfortable recounting, even to fellow surgeons.

 

“Jack Smedley was the fourth member of his patrol group to stand on the IED,” Bernie, Serena noticed, was once more talking to the flowers rather than her, her face showing her ‘consultant’s mask’.  She took a sip of her wine and looked at the glass absently, as if surprised to see she was holding it, before returning it to the table and looking at Serena.  “A few months later, his father recognised my name at a function and he suggested a wine… we keep in contact and he sends me wine recommendations sometimes,”  Bernie took another sip, a slow sip that saw her properly tasting the wine in her mouth before she swallowed it, “actually all of the ones I sent you.”

 

“You were the son’s, Jack’s surgeon?” 

 

“Yes, well, in Afghanistan.  He was only my patient for 36 hours.”  Bernie looked thoughtfully at Serena, as if, concluded Serena, she was just realising who exactly she was talking to.  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” asked Bernie, not in a harsh or challenging way, but in the same way she asked the student doctors that, remembered Serena, actually had them answering honestly, recognising that she wasn’t interested in humiliating them with their ignorance, but in her own, blunt way, offering to help them.

 

“No.”  Serena cleared her throat, “I mean, I’ve watched the news and the odd documentary…” she wasn’t surprised when she saw Bernie wince, “but I know that’s not...what I mean is, I know how well intentioned but not exactly right so much of the medicine on TV is…” She smiled tentatively, “I would like to understand more, but only if you don’t mind explaining?”

 

“It’s different, in every theatre… I mean military theatre,” began Bernie, resting her hands on her knees as she chewed her lip, wondering exactly where to start, before changing tack.  “What happens here, when there’s say…” she chewed her lip again, this time her face contorting into a very impressive scowling frown whilst she considered and dismissed various ‘civilian’ scenarios, “...a vehicle crashes into a bridge somewhere and there are two people trapped in it.”

 

“Injuries?” Anyone else and Serena might have started debating the rapid change of direction, but despite concluding that Bernie was perhaps more of an enigma to her than ever, she didn’t doubt the relevance of the question, or underestimate the importance of giving the most appropriate answer she could.

 

“Let’s keep it simple,” suggested Bernie, a grin ghosting across her face, “trapped foot and open broken femur for one, suspected neck fracture for the other.  The leg’s conscious, the suspected neck not.”

 

Serena was tempted to challenge Bernie’s definition of ‘simple’ but decided now was not the moment.

 

“Well, ambulance, fire brigade, police all attend, obviously…” she began, mentally reviewing what the various hospital procedures and responses would be.  “Short version - both casualties are removed from the vehicle - the fire brigade generally dictate the pace so that the casualties aren’t put at increased risk from further incident like the vehicle bursting into flames, but generally the paramedics will want to get the casualties as stable as possible before moving.  So open broken femur would get wound management, splint, pain relief…” Serena was tempted to ask whether she was passing her ‘test’ but decided to just press on, suspecting that Bernie hadn’t asked the question in order to put her on the defensive - for all her other interpersonal ‘issues’, that wasn’t they surgeon’s style. “Neck brace if there was a concern about that as well.  Suspected neck would get brace, back board, extensive monitoring of vitals and so on…”  Serena saw Bernie start to smile and reviewed what she’d said, not seeing anything obvious that she’d missed.  “You’re amused.”

 

“What you said first, it made me smile.”  Serena cast a perplexed look at her fellow surgeon, inviting her to continue talking, quickly.  “What I mean is, your starting assumptions were that ambulance, fire brigade, police all attend and, aside from the risk of fire, the casualties are moved carefully and slowly..”

 

“Yes. Of course.” It was taking a lot of patience that she wasn’t entirely sure she had to stop her snapping at Bernie to get to her bloody point, but out of a mixture of professional respect for her as a surgeon and a belief that she had been telling the truth when she’d let it be known she didn’t have much time for politics, Serena was prepared to ‘play along’.

 

“An Army vehicle crashes into a bridge in somewhere like Afghanistan and it is probably part of an attempted ambush and capture.”

 

“Ah.”  Serena began to see Bernie’s point - it wasn’t the treatment that these notional ‘casualties’ received at their hypothetical ‘scene’ that was significant, it was the environment in which that first treatment was administered, or not.  “No friendly policemen keeping the road closed while a back-board is carefully positioned?”

 

“There might be, but that doesn’t stop the sniper on the hill or the IED in the ground.  The priority is to get out of there, get to safety.  So get the injured into transport, be it to a Land Rover or helicopter.  Battered and alive is better than stabilised and dead.  If the soldier is alive, we’ve always got a chance.”

 

“And then they become your patient?”

 

“Yes.  Until they were stable enough airlifted back to the UK.”  Bernie studied her fingertips for a moment, caught up in her own thoughts.  “A war zone is not a very good recovery ward.”

 

“How stable did they need to be?”

 

“By Holby standards?” Bernie rubbed her neck as she studied Serena’s face, looking for any hint of the reaction she was about to get, but her ‘consultant’s face’ was firmly in place.  “Not very.  A C-17,” Bernie saw Serena’s face twitch at the unknown acronym, “very large military aircraft - they can move virtually anything, including ICU patients.”

 

“And Jack Smedley?”  ‘And you?’ thought Serena, realising for the first time quite how different Bernie’s life had been the day before she became a patient at Holby.

 

“Dragged out of the IED crater by members of his patrol who applied tourniquets and the medic gave him pain relief.  Fortunately they could get a helicopter to pick him up so I got to him not that long after the explosion.”

 

“What were his injuries?”

 

“Traumatic amputation of the left and right legs above the knee, plus the usual burns and lacerations from the explosion.”

 

It was at that moment that Serena realised quite how different their surgical CVs must look - she could still remember her first amputation case, the patient had been involved in a road traffic accident.  Over the course of her career, she had subsequently had a few more patients, where the amputation became necessary as a result of trauma or infection, but the procedure had never become routine for her in the same way that, say, a splenectomy or appendectomy had.  However, there was a time and a place for professional curiosity about surgery details, and this was not it, so Serena returned to their original conversation topic. “How did you meet his father?”

 

“Aldershot.  I was there for a course and he recognised my name…” Bernie picked up her wine glass again and swirled the rich red liquid.  “Good man to know it turns out.”

 

“What does he do?”

 

“Now? He’s retired, but then?” Bernie drained the remainder of the wine that was in her glass.  “He was in the Royal Logistics Corps...you could say he was the British Army’s Sommelier.”

 

“A very good man to know,” agreed Serena, enjoying the last couple of mouthfuls of her glass, looking forward to savouring the two bottles of the same vintage that she’d now got carefully stored on her wine rack.

 

“You still ok with Indian?” Bernie’s stomach was starting to grumble and if she wasn’t careful, her hunger would become audible.

 

“Lovely.”  It had been a while since Serena had indulged in an Indian take-away, so when Bernie had earlier admitted that she wasn’t much of a cook and that her invitation to come round for dinner actually meant come round to order in, Serena had easily agreed.

 

“I’ll go grab the menus and phone…” Bernie stood up easily, finding escaping from the beanbag’s clutches straightforward, making Serena wonder how often the couch was actually sat on, with not often being her best guess.  “Help yourself to some more wine, there’s another bottle...”

 

“Thanks…”  Serena watched Bernie head back into the hall and presumably onto the kitchen, before she stood up and busied herself with refilling both of their glasses and generally thought about the evening so far.  She wasn’t surprised to notice that her earlier apprehension about seeing Bernie again had quickly dissipated - Bernie still was everything Serena had come to think of her as being - she was still an exceptionally skillful and talented surgeon, straightforward thinker and speaker.  But she was also private, sharing information about herself when asked but otherwise focussing on doing the job, a job that had seen her work in very different circumstances with patients facing very different challenges.  It was embarrassingly naive to think that Bernie would therefore have been as comfortable and confident about sharing details of her private life with a colleague as Serena had been, given how much of said private life had regrettably been conducted within the walls of Holby City Hospital.  

 

Smiling ruefully, Serena retook her seat on the couch, not sure if she dared attempt to sit on the beanbag.  Swirling the deep red wine around her glass, she watched it rise and fall in the glass, leaving the occasional droplet behind as proof of where it had been… She was glad she had come this evening - there was still a fair way to go before the friendship was ‘repaired’, but she was certain it was possible, and something she wanted...and, she admitted to herself, something that would only be possible once she’d also apologised, or at least tried to. 


	3. Comprehension & Comradeship

“My children.  Their last school photographs.”

 

“They all go through phases of refusing to be photographed...” observed Serena in what she hoped was a reasonably neutral sounding voice, looking over her shoulder at Bernie who, returning from the kitchen wine glass in hand, appeared not particularly concerned to find Serena stood in front of her bookcase, looking at the photographs.

 

“At least, photographs they are prepared to let their mother see.  And yes, they are siblings, despite what it looks like.”  Bernie took another sip of her wine, a different recommendation by Colour-Sergeant Smedley, but one that appeared to be just as well received as the first one had been.  “Cameron managed to avoid most of the Dunn family genes, but they are mighty strong ones, Charlotte wasn’t so lucky…” explained Bernie, gesturing to the pictures of her kids, both wearing school uniform at age 18 but, based on the haircuts, clearly not taken in the same year. “Probably as well actually.”

 

“Oh?”  Not quite sure how to interpret the dry comment, Serena waited for Bernie to explain rather than trying to guess at what she was supposed to infer.

 

“Even Marcus at his most vindictive cannot question their parentage.”  Bernie shrugged when she saw Serena looking at her in disbelief.  “I thought you were the one advising me to expect the worst?”

 

“Yes but…” Serena drank some of her wine whilst she tried to think of something to say.  “Seriously?  He’s going back that far?”

 

“Yup.  Cameron,” Bernie gestured to the photograph on the left, which, realised Serena, looking between the photograph and the woman stood next to her, was of a long-limbed almost lanky brown-haired young man, with his mother’s sparkling eyes and general facial structure, “was a honeymoon baby.  And Charlotte…” Bernie took a sip of her wine as she looked thoughtfully at the picture of her daughter who, aside from the having the same hair colour as her brother, was completely different, being practically the complete spitting image of her father.  “It’s her 21st next month.”

 

“What’s she doing to celebrate?”

 

“Getting arrested probably.”  At Serena’s look of shock, Bernie chuckled hollowly before explaining, “it turns out I gave birth to quite a successful aspirational rebel who has graduated from the ‘wrong sort’ of music to the ‘wrong sort’ of friends and a taste for civil disobedience.”  Bernie drained her wine glass.  “ _ Apparently  _ it is an inevitable consequence of her absentee terrorist aiding mother.”

 

“And who holds that impressive prejudice?” 

 

“My sister-in-law.”

 

“Close to her brother is she?” Serena was disappointed to see that she’d virtually finished her glass, but obviously hadn’t concealed her disappointment terribly well as Bernie was already at the coffee table, picking up the bottle.

 

“Fraternal twin, hated me since day one.  Top up?”

 

“Please.”  Serena held out her glass as she thought about what she was learning about Bernie, uncertain what to say next.

 

“You can say it.”

 

“Say what?”

 

“Whatever it is you’re thinking.  I won’t break,” Bernie poured herself some more wine and returned the bottle to the coffee table, “and I like the wine too much to throw about.”

 

“How did it happen?” Serena had blurted out the question before she’d really had time to think about it.

 

“Depends which ‘it’ you’re talking about…” Bernie once again folded herself neatly onto her beanbag, only this time not only was Serena watching, but Bernie saw her look of amazement.  “Being able to sit on the floor at a moment’s notice is almost as useful as being able to get back up again.  Certainly far more useful than the Geneva Convention.”

 

“Is that why you aren’t wearing a red cross?” Serena gestured towards one of the other two photographs that were on the bookcase, which showed a group of khaki wearing soldiers clustered around the bonnet of a jeep, on which two people were sitting.

 

“Yes.  Bring it over if you like... “ encouraged Bernie, gesturing towards the couch again, not wanting Serena to feel like she had to stay stood by the bookcase for the rest of their conversation.  “That was taken… I can’t remember exactly, but probably 4, maybe 5 years ago.”

 

“It’s Afghanistan?”  Serena put her wine glass on the coffee table and sat on the couch, holding the photograph in its simple frame carefully with both hands.

 

“Yes, Camp Bastion.  I’m the one the Jeep...” explained Bernie, remembering the impromptu photo op as if it were weeks ago rather than years.

  
  


_ “Major Wolfe?” _

 

_ “Yes Colour?”  Bernie looked up from her paperwork to see one of the senior theatre nurses, a reservist whose usual hospital was somewhere in the Welsh Borders if she remembered correctly, stood hovering in the doorway. _

 

_ “We’re ready Ma’am.” _

 

_ “Why did I agree to this again?” asked Bernie, somewhat rhetorically as she dutifully put aside her pen and stood up, automatically picking up her discarded sidearm and refastening the belt that carried the holstered weapon over her hips.  She may have been a medic, but the rules were clear - in certain areas of the base, all personnel must be armed.  Camp Bastion was safer than many operating posts, but the threat was still never far away. _

 

_ “Because the Colonel ordered you Ma’am?” speculated the Colour-Sergeant carefully, knowing that it was possible to push the Major too far but reasonably confident the surgeon’s sense of humour was ‘on duty’ with the rest of her. _

 

_ “Actually, I believe the Colonel’s order was for me to raise my right hand…” mused Bernie, picking up her beret and water bottle before following the Colour-Sergeant out of her office, “...everything else was my own fault for volunteering.”  She pulled the beret on, years of service meaning she’d lined up the RAMC cap badge over her left eye without conscious thought. _

 

_ “And we’re very grateful you did Ma’am.” _

 

_ “So the rumour was true then?” Bernie’s experience, both medical and military, meant that she just about managed to keep an appropriately straight face as she fell into step with the Sergeant as they walked the short distance to where the rest of her colleagues were milling around a parked up Jeep. _

 

_ “I couldn’t possibly comment Ma’am.”  Before Bernie could ask any more questions, the nurse speeded up just enough so that she rejoined the rest of the medical staff a minute before Bernie arrived, giving everyone just enough time to straighten their berets and at least be in a position to come to attention. _

 

_ “As you were…”  Bernie scanned the assembled soldiers, “...nice to see your trousers are with us gentlemen,” she observed dryly, “my mother-in-law will be disappointed.” _

 

_ “Disappointed Ma’am?” asked one of her fellow surgeons, a Captain whose broad Glaswegian accent was in sharp contradiction with his surprisingly gentle bedside manner.  She wasn’t entirely certain his accent didn’t get thicker the more senior an officer he was talking to or treating. _

 

_ “Indeed.  She’s an assiduous reader of the RAMC newsletter, it’s quite her favourite publication after paint-drying weekly.”  It hadn’t actually bothered Bernie one way or another whether the ‘moral-boosting’ team photograph had some of the guys in the buff - as she’d observed to the Colonel, any novelty the male genitalia held to her had worn off long before her first surgical procedure on said anatomy, and regrettably she’d been in theatre only that morning for her fifty-something such procedure on Camp (it had taken a couple of tours admittedly)  - but she had nevertheless agreed to the Colonel’s wish that the photograph be ‘informal but wholesome’ which meant trousers remained most definitely ON.  “What’s the plan Corporal?” she asked, turning to the one face she didn’t recognise, although the large professional looking camera that was hanging around his neck gave her a pretty good hint as to who he was. _

 

_ “The team thought they would cluster around the front of the Jeep Major.  It was suggested that you might like to sit on the bonnet Ma’am.” _

 

_ “Fair enough.  How many photographs do you need?” _

 

_ “Only one Ma’am, for the Newsletter, but I would like to take half a dozen photographs to be certain of a good one.” _

 

_ “Very well.”  Bernie smiled at the young photographer in what she hoped was a reassuring way.  “I think this lot can manage to oblige.” _

 

_ “Thank you Ma’am.” _

 

_ “Right, six photographs, no misbehaving.  The faster we get the official shots taken, the more likely it is there will be time for you to mess about afterwards…Captain Dawson?” _

 

_ “Yes Ma’am?”  Surprised that the Major knew who she was, having only arrived at the Camp the day before and not yet had a chance to meet the surgeon who she was apparently assigned to work with, Alex Dawson approached her senior officer. _

 

_ “Join me on the Jeep.  You can tell me about yourself whilst the rest of this lot get themselves organised…” _

 

_ “Yes Ma’am.” _

 

“Who’s the other soldier with you?  On the jeep I mean,” asked Serena, not certain she would have recognised Bernie if she’d not been told where she was, as the surgeon looked so different in her combat uniform and beret.

 

“One of the anaesthetists...she’d arrived the day before the photo was taken, for her first tour and I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her until then, whilst the boys were larking about.”

 

“Wait, anaesthetist…”  Serena looked again at the photograph, trying to study the face of the woman sat next to Bernie, their shoulders touching as they leaned forwards slightly, their attention held by whatever it was that had culminated in one of the medics by the front right wheel of the Jeep wiping his face with the bottom of his soaked t-shirt, his fellow soldiers laughing.  “Is that…”

  
“Captain Alex Dawson.  The day we met.”

 

“I see.”  Serena put the photograph back on the coffee table and picked up her wine glass, as much because it gave her something to do with her hands as to drink from.

 

“Do you?”  Bernie’s voice was quiet and flat, with no particular ‘tone’ or ‘colour’ to it...there was nothing to get defensive or passionate about anymore, not now, now that everything was broken and a mess.  “Because I’ve not exactly told you much… how did you put it?  When one’s candor hasn’t been reciprocated?”

 

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“Why not?”  Bernie looked up at Serena, her face blank and expressionless, “you were factually correct - I didn’t correct the assumptions you’d made, and I didn’t reciprocate with confidences.”

 

“But I didn’t give you a chance…” In contrast to Bernie’s emotionless facade, Serena’s voice and expression were full of remorse and guilt.  “I launched straight at you with my tales of Edward, not to mention Fletch and that man…” 

 

“That was something, operating on him, I’ll grant you that.”  Bernie raised her glass in a toasting salute before realising that it was empty.  “Wait, you’re not in tomorrow are you?”

 

“No, two days off, you?”

 

“Same, well, two more days off.  I was off today.”  All of which meant that she could pour out the remainder of the open bottle (their second, started when their curry had arrived) between their two glasses and not have to worry about stretching it to the whole of what Bernie was certain would be a conversation that required ongoing Dutch Courage.  A third bottle was allowed if neither of them was due in the hospital tomorrow.  “Top up?”

 

“Thank you…” Serena watched the dark red liquid filling her glass, Bernie’s hand steady as she poured despite having to stretch across the table.  “That patient…” 

 

“Jack Smedley?” guessed Bernie, unable to confidently pinpoint exactly who Serena was talking about.

 

“No, Jess Granter.  Last week, in AAU?”  Serena cleared her throat carefully, “the one with the brother and baby?”

 

“I remember.”  Bernie focussed on keeping her breathing steady and her gaze neutral, concealed behind her ‘consultant’s mask’.

 

“Fletch found a news article about them.”

 

“I thought he might.”  Bernie’s face and voice were steady and stoic, giving Serena no clue as to how she was feeling.

 

“You were there.”

 

“In Afghanistan, yes.”  Bernie knew Serena wouldn’t be satisfied with such an obvious piece of dissembling, but took advantage of the extra few seconds it gave her to get her emotions in order.

 

“When they were injured, you were there, right there.”

 

“About forty yards away.”  Bernie blinked quickly, knowing that if she closed her eyes for longer than a moment she would see that afternoon again, played out in slow motion.

 

“On the front line?” Serena regretted asking the question as soon as she’d said the words, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be…”

 

“It’s fine.”  Bernie’s interruption prompted an extremely skeptical look from Serena, “no, honestly.  It’s fine.  Well, not fine,” admitted Bernie, smiling ruefully and looking thoughtfully in her general direction but, suspected Serena, without ever actually seeing her.  “some of it, most of it was far from fine… but I don’t mind you asking questions.”  Bernie rubbed her neck absently, before blinking and this time, actually looking at Serena.  “I don’t volunteer to talk about it because honestly?  I don’t really know what to say.  War is…”  Bernie chewed on her lip, ordering her thoughts.  “Hell.  Especially now.”

 

“Why?”  Serena saw the confusion appear in Bernie’s face and immediately sought to try and ask a more specific question.  “Why do it?  Go to war I mean.”

 

“I go where the Army sends, I mean sent me.”  Bernie caught her lip between her teeth and again studied the anemones in the vase on the coffee table before looking at Serena thoughtfully and saying, “that’s still not the answer to your question, is it?”

 

“I don’t know.” Serena took a sip of her wine as she tried to work out what she was really wanting to know, deciding in the process not to pick Bernie up on her evident struggle with accepting her civilian status.  “When did you join the Army?”

 

“School, well, 6th form.”  Bernie’s expression softened as she thought back to that period of her life which at the time felt so full of conflict and anger, but now she realised, it was just a ripple or two in an otherwise calm and peaceful existence.  “Even with the grants and everything we had back then, med school was beyond a country vicar’s salary.”

 

“Vicar’s daughter?” Serena couldn’t contain her surprise.  She hadn’t actually given any thought to what Bernie’s parents might have been, but now that Bernie had brought it up, she was struggling to reconcile it.  

 

“Reverend Geoffrey Wolfe - that’s him,” Bernie nodded her head towards the one photograph on the bookcase that Serena hadn’t really looked at, of a mid-twenties Bernie, wearing what was presumably her wedding dress, stood next to a cassock and surplice wearing clergyman.  “He married us and christened the kids.”

 

“He must have been proud of you?”

 

“Yes, but I think he was more proud that I was marrying a doctor than actually being one myself.”  Bernie smiled wryly, watching the ring marks her wine glass made on the glass coffee table, a result of an errant drop of wine from an earlier top up.  “I looked up various types of scholarship and sponsorship, and the Forces… they offered everything I could possibly need or want.  So I applied.”  Bernie looked at Serena, her eyes slightly damp, not because of the memory of her father’s fury when he discovered what she’d done, but because of the memory of the last time she’d told someone her story, the first time she’d told someone her story.

 

_ “You’re kidding!” _

 

_ “No, I’m not.”  Smiling in spite of the seriousness of their conversation, Bernie looked sideways at Alex, wondering how she could make the younger woman understand.  “He...he remembered the War I guess.” _

 

_ “The Great War?”  Alex looked at Bernie, grinning cheekily, sensing that her friend was getting caught up in memories that were hard to relive, which hadn’t been her intention when she’d asked the fairly routine smalltalk ‘how’d you end up in the Army?’ question, “you’re not  _ **_that_ ** _ old Ma’am!” _

 

_ “I will be if this transport doesn’t make it…” grumbled Bernie, wanting to take her helmet off so she could scratch the itch on her head, but knowing better than to risk the wrath of some NCO who was always lurking ready to tell off an officer for doing something they shouldn’t.  “And it was the Second, not First World War.” _

 

_ “What did your father do?” Alex took the cap off her water canteen and held it out for Bernie to take, determinedly not watching how that line of water, the one that always escaped from the bottle and missed her mouth, trailed down her neck, following the near-invisible contours of the muscles, strong from hours of surgery. _

 

_ “In the War?  He was evacuated I think, or sent away to family.”  Bernie returned the canteen to Alex with a grateful smile and distractedly wiped her slightly damp fingers on the knee of her trousers.  “But he became a Vicar and he had all these parishioners who had done things in the War, things they couldn’t talk about, things they didn’t expect to talk about I suppose.” _

 

_ “My grandparents were like that, even after the records were declassified.  They just didn’t talk…” Alex recapped her canteen and put it back in the pocket of her pack. _

 

_ “He was furious when he saw the letter, inviting me to interview.” _

 

_ “You hadn’t told him you’d applied?”  Alex looked incredulously at Bernie, trying to reconcile the self-professed rule follower with the sort of rebellious teenager that would do something as significant as apply to join the Army without mentioning it. _

 

_ “No.  Seemed easier to wait until it became a thing, which it wouldn’t have, if I’d not got the interview.”  Logically, Alex could understand Bernie’s thinking - why worry her father about her application if she was then rejected at the first stage?  It was not the way Alex had gone through the process - she’d gone to the recruiting office with her Mum and couldn’t imagine doing it any other way, but she understood how it had, and still did, seem the most sensible approach to Bernie. _

 

_ “But why the Army?  Why not the Navy or Air Force?” _

 

_ “I get seasick, and the Air Force felt like I’d end up living at home.”  Bernie watched a cloud drift across the sky, passing in front of the sun and giving everywhere a moment’s relief from its harsh glare.  “I grew up in Lincolnshire, well, the Diocese of Lincoln to be specific.” _

 

_ “So Army it was, and Father Daddy was mad,” summarised Alex, earning her a elbow in the ribs and muttered ‘Reverend, not Father.  He was CofE!’ from Bernie before she confirmed her summary was complete. “Gotcha.” _

 

_ “He relaxed a bit once I’d got in, and he started to understand what it meant in terms of support for Med School, if I got the grades.  What a false dawn that was.” _

 

_ “Let me guess, that was when you got your results and he realised you were actually going off to Med School?” asked Alex, remembering her own issues with her family when reality had hit and she’d been holding the results slips that confirmed she was off to Med School, a Med School she needed Army sponsorship to get to. _

 

_ “You know, I’ve never told anyone this…” said Bernie suddenly, running her fingertip inside her helmet’s chin strap, trying to get it to settle more comfortably under her jaw. _

 

_ “I’m sorry…” The sun caught Bernie’s wedding ring as she spoke, the plain, simple thin gold band that somehow set her in a different generation to Alex, to the generation of her parents with their thin, unadorned gold wedding rings, rather than the platinum and white gold bands her siblings and friends had, with their engravings and intricate designs.  “I didn’t mean to…” To what?  To pry?  It was hardly prying to ask a fellow medical officer how they came to be in the Army - for the first month or so on a Tour, it was about the only piece of small talk you had time for. _

 

_ “Don’t apologise!”  Bernie dropped her hands down, the right now shielding her left hand from the glare of the sun as she continued to rest her forearms on her knees. her pack next to Alex’s, on the floor in front of them as they waited at this tiny Patrol Base for their transport to arrive.  “It wasn’t a complaint, just…”  Bernie looked towards Alex who, sensing the movement, turned to make eye contact, “...the realisation that I’ve…” her first instinct had been to say that it was the first time she’d been asked, but changed her mind at the last moment.  “That I’ve had an occasion to recount it.” _

 

_ “You don’t have to…” Alex couldn’t help but think of the man who’d put that ring on Bernie’s finger - how had he managed to achieve that and yet had never created an ‘occasion to recount’ how Bernie had taken one of the most significant and defining decisions of her life? _

 

_ “I want to…” Bernie’s voice was quiet and so very different to the more commanding,and confident voice that was more ordinarily associated with Major Wolfe.  She looked cautiously at Alex, her hand starting to move to take Alex’s, only to catch herself almost immediately as the distant (but not distant enough) sound of weapons fire reminded her that they were still stuck on this bloody base, far from ‘home’ in this land that was… starting to feel more home-like than the building at the address her bank statements were sent to.  “If you’re still interested?” _

 

_ “Yes Ma’am.”  At the formal response from Alex, Bernie blinked and looked at Alex curiously, having not expected the retreat to military formality.   They were sat tucked in a corner of the Patrol Base’s main ‘garden’ - an area of open space a few yards wide that ran around the central structure that contained the sleeping bunks and working space, their backs resting against the low wall that separated this inner space from the larger area that circled the base inside the perimeter wall, which was a further twenty yards or so away.  There was no one in obvious earshot, the soldiers of the base carrying on with their usual routines whilst the two RAMC officers sat in the shade of the ‘safe outside, but keep your helmets on Ma’am’, awaiting their transport.  Their had the illusion of privacy, but it was only that, an illusion, as voices carried on the desert breezes and bored soldiers on remote patrol bases paid attention to anyone new or different.  So whilst her words were formal, and her body never moved, Alex’s eyes told Bernie quite a different message, a message that encouraged her to carry on her story… _

 

_ “Palm Sunday was April 4th when I was in the Upper Sixth… it was the Easter Holidays and I was helping him with the preparations, for what we both knew was probably the last time… you know, making the crosses?” As she spoke, Bernie’s hands instinctively moved through the air, folding an imaginary strand of palm grass into the small, neat cross that was familiar to most Church of England parishioners and soldiers from the Palm Sunday service.  “On the Friday, the Argentines had invaded the Falklands, the day after Palm Sunday the Naval Task Force was at sailing south....” Bernie batted away a fly that had decided to try and land on her nose.  “And by the time my father stood to preach his Easter Day sermon, there was a cruise ship sailing for the South Atlantic, full of Royal Marine Commandos.” _

  
  
  


“Your father clearly came around.”

 

“What?”  Startled, Bernie looked at Serena, as if she was surprised to find herself in this sparsely furnished (if you could call a bookcase, coffee table, bean bag and small one-and-a-half person couch furnished) room, talking to Serena.  “Oh, yes.  He did, sort of.”

 

“Enough to marry you,” observed Serena, tipping her head in the direction of the photograph which showed a proud father wearing dog collar and snowy white surplus stood next to Bernie in a simple and understated and, admitted Serena to herself with grudging respect, impressively elegant even by today’s fashions and standards.  There was nothing so dating it seemed, as wedding photos, and that had been her opinion before her divorce.  “Black and white?”

 

“Hmm?”  Bernie looked confused for a moment before, glancing back at the photograph, she smiled fondly, “my grandmother’s insistence - all the other photographs were in colour, but for that one she insisted in black and white.”

 

“Oh?”  Serena’s eyebrow quirked and she looked quizzically at Bernie, her expression not dissimilar to when she wasn’t following a fellow medic’s run down on a patient.

 

“The vicar wore white,” explained Bernie, standing up smoothly and heading to the window where, for some reason Serena couldn’t quite fathom, she appeared to be keeping the unopened bottles of red wine.  “But the bride wore off-white.  Gran said we looked like a badly decorated ceiling stood next to each other.”

 

_ “You’re kidding!”  Not believing what she was hearing, Alex turned and looked at Bernie in disbelief. _

 

_ “What was that  _ **_Captain_ ** _?”  As Bernie emphasised her rank quietly, Alex also saw her rapid wink (reassuring Alex that she hadn’t actually taken any offense) and her head moved a fraction to the right, prompting Alex to glance over her friend’s shoulder and see that they now weren’t quite as alone in the theatre scrub-room as they might have expected to be given the hour. _

 

_ “With respect Ma’am,” rephrased Alex, returning Bernie’s wink with a rapid nod and grin of acknowledgement of her own, “you’re kidding.  I do not believe your grandmother said that.” _

 

_ “She didn’t,” agreed Bernie, turning off the taps and shaking her arms, trying to remove the excess water before she reached for the towel, “at least,” she continued, ignoring Alex’s silent scoff of supposed victory, “what she actually said was that compared to my father’s white surplice, my dress was the same colour as the damp patch on her bedroom ceiling he still hadn’t painted out for her, and when was he coming round to do it?” _

 

_ “Your grandmother likened your wedding dress to a damp patch on her bedroom ceiling?”  Alex followed Bernie over to the towels, relieved that whoever had been using the other wash station had left a moment earlier as she was certain it was impossible for her to counteract her incredulity by ‘Ma’am-ing’.  “On your wedding day?” _

 

_ “Somewhere, someone’s got the video of reception… it’s in my father’s speech.” _

 

_ “Seriously?”  Alex tossed her used paper towels in the rubbish bin and leant against it, taking the opportunity to just look at the blonde Major, to just be able to see Bernie, slightly tired, very energised, riding the adrenalin high of another successful shift in theatre doing what she did best. _

 

_ “Yup.”  Bernie moved to toss her paper towels in the bin, only to realise that with Alex leaning against it, she wasn’t going to be able to unless Alex moved.  So, thinking Alex hadn’t realised the obstruction she was creating, Bernie mimed throwing the towels in the bin, trying to give Alex the clue to move out of the way. _

 

_ “No…” Alex’s answer was ambiguous, in that it could be ascribed to either Bernie’s confirmation about her wedding day or her request to move, which was important in a world where the majority of buildings were made of canvas - walls didn’t have ears exactly, they just shielded the eavesdropper.  Her hands though, invisible to anyone except Bernie now that they were alone in the scrub-room, were quite definite, and cleared up any uncertainty that Bernie might have had, as they moved from Alex’s scrub trouser pockets to rest on the rim of the wire bin.  “I hadn’t realised you came from such a long line of risk takers Ma’am.”  The challenge was there, laid down for only Bernie to see… but then, Bernie was the only person Alex wanted to take the challenge. _

 

_ “Risk takers?” Smirking, Bernie balled up the paper towels and stepped towards the bin. _

 

_ “A brave father tells his daughter she looks like his mother’s damp ceiling,” explained Alex, her breath catching when she realised quite how close Bernie was daring to stand to her, so close she was certain their chests, rising and falling as they deliberately and carefully breathed calmly and deeply when all they could feel were their hearts racing, would graze against each other if only they could breathe a fraction deeper, for a moment longer. _

 

_ “Ah.  A nervous son more like,” corrected Bernie, reaching around behind Alex, her bare forearm skirting curves of hip and back and butt in order to precisely and tidily drop the paper towels in the bin. _

 

_ “And the bride wore damp?” joked Alex, her voice catching in a cough as, towels discarded, Bernie’s hand retraced its route back around Alex, only this time, the curves of her butt, back and hip were traced not skirted, and their chests were definitely touching. _

 

_ “Apparently so…” agreed Bernie, stealing a kiss as reluctantly she stepped backwards, reestablishing the distance their ranks required,  “...want to pretend the canteen’s breakfast is fine dining Captain?” _

 

“ _ I’ll imagine the red wine Major.” _

  
  


“Sorry?”  Blinking again, Bernie looked up at Serena.

 

“I was wondering if I’d imagined you keeping the red wine behind the curtains when you produced the last bottle,” explained Serena, wondering for the second time since they’d finished their curries where exactly Bernie’s thoughts kept wandering to.

 

“Oh.”  Bernie turned back to the curtains and parted them enough for Serena to see the large bay window seat.  “Underfloor heating apparently - haven’t worked out if it’s on or off yet.  That and everyone drinks red wine too warm.”

 

“Explains the lack of radiators,” muttered Serena, looking around the room and realising that the lack of wall mounted heating was helping to create the illusion of the room being sparse - it was the unknown ‘something’ that she’d been conscious of missing since she arrived.  “Can I ask you something?”  At Bernie’s smirk, Serena smiled at falling into her own trap.  “I mean, can I ask you something that I don’t think has to do with medicine, the Army or your family?”

 

“Alex.”  Bernie’s promptness surprised Serena, who hadn’t realised she’d asked a question that could be answered with something other than yes or no.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Whatever your question is, the something that you don’t think has to do with medicine, the Army or my family?”

 

“I don’t follow…” Serena felt really awful that she was being dense and making Bernie spell it out to her, but she was genuinely lost.  “Alex, as in Alex Dawson?  Your…”

 

“My lover… ex-lover? I don’t know what she is…” Bernie realised she was talking to the flowers again and, with an effort that few in Holby, knew she had within her still, she forced herself to look up and make eye contact with Serena.  “But she’s the only other thing left.”  Bernie shrugged, her eyes wet but she hadn’t noticed.  “So whatever your question is, I can already tell you the answer.  The answer is Alex.”

 

Wordlessly, Bernie put the wine bottle she’d been holding down on the coffee table and, leaning down further, she reached forwards and scooped up the photograph of her team, the team that helped her save the lives of Jack Smedley and John Sommingsby and all the others Serena didn’t know about, the team that in many ways was a team not dissimilar to Serena’s own team on AAU.  Similar and yet, Serena was realising now, so very different.  As Bernie straightened up again, Serena was surprised at the lump she felt in her own throat as she watched the tall, stoical surgeon with the unflinching determination to not be defeated by a trauma until she had nothing left to give crying, properly crying as she looked intently at the photograph of her team, at one person on her team.  

 

Just when Serena thought she might be able to say something, the silence was broken by Bernie.  “She was the only one… that I…” Bernie shook her head, trying to clear her vision so she could see the photograph, see the tiny grinning face as Alex enjoyed herself sat on that hot jeep bonnet.  “Until I met her, I had never… I mean I was a faithful wife, until her.  She’s my only transgression...the only one I broke the rules for.”  

 

“Rules or vows?” Bernie looked at Serena in surprise, surprise that her question wasn’t asked in that tone of voice that dripped with anger and betrayal that had become so familiar to Bernie’s ears, and to a lesser degree, surprise that Serena had asked the question at all.

 

“Honestly?  The rules, the Army rules…”  Bernie caught her lower lip as she thought about what she knew she was supposed to say, versus what she knew was the only thing she really could say.  “My marriage vows?  They did mean something, a lot actually…” Bernie, still holding the photograph of her team, crossed back to the bookcase and picked up the photograph of her father and her on her wedding day.  “It was inevitable really I suppose, given my father’s career... “ she looked back at Serena, a wry smile complimenting her tears which were still tumbling down her cheeks unchecked.  “I was either going to be devout or a rebel… and I was devout, still am, sort of.”  

 

“But how?  I mean…” Serena was conscious she didn’t really have the right to ask these questions of Bernie, that she wasn’t really asking because of Bernie, but because deep down, she still couldn’t understand how exactly Edward could have done it to her.

 

“You mean how could I look at someone who wasn’t the man I married and not be able to remember what I was doing because I forget when I see them smile?”  Bernie looked back down at the photograph, her last tangible reminder that she hadn’t dreamt it, she hadn’t created the illusion of this wonderful other person with whom she’d been able to exist, inside this happy bubble, whilst everything around her was crumbling and burning.  “How I could be held by someone who wasn’t the man I married and feel loved?”  Bernie wiped a tear away from the picture, the drop of moisture distorting the image through the glass.  “How I could be blown up and be making my peace by praying for someone who wasn’t my husband or children?”  With a final polish of the glass, Bernie put the photo of her team carefully back on her bookcase, the only tangible reminder she had of Alex, with the few photos she did have lost when her phone was left behind in the destroyed jeep.  

 

“I…” Looking at Bernie, stood looking at her few photographs, sitting on the bookcase amongst the familiar medical texts that Serena knew were on her own bookcase at home, above the shelves of books on military ethics, Afghan and Middle East history and customs… Serena found herself lost for words as her current emotions were at odds to her expectations.  She expected to be angry… angry that she’d been lied to, angry that she’d assumed an ‘innocence’ and ascribed a ‘guilt’... but right now she felt...like she was being shown something she didn’t deserve to see, didn’t deserve to be told.  These weren’t the well rehearsed soundbites of a woman who had moulded what remained of her life into a different shape, the broken bits held together with determination and energy and ultimately new bits.  This was the rubble of a life that was exploded and lost, shifting and collapsing in front of her as she clumsily stumbled over it, asking her stupid questions.  “I shouldn’t be asking you about this…”

 

“It’s ok…” Bernie sounded far from ‘ok’ as she spoke, “...I’m sorry, this isn’t what you expected…” She dragged her cuff across her eyes, finally conscious of the tears.  “So much for the cold, distant Major Wolfe who cheated on her husband…”

 

“You’ve not talked about this, have you?”

 

“What? No… well, a tiny bit, with Dom.  If you can believe that.”

 

“Dom?  As in Dr Copeland Dom?” Serena put her now empty wine glass down on the coffee table, it sounding loud as it landed, drawing Bernie’s attention to it, and reminding her that she’d been standing in the first place in order to get the next bottle.

 

“Yes.  Not my choice…” Bernie shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck, “but he’s… surprisingly sensible… and someone else I need to apologise to.”

 

“That I can see,” agreed Serena, remembering various moments in his time in the hospital when he’d distinguished himself in a good way, “but how did you end up talking about this with him?  Not an obvious choice…”

 

“If I’m the callous bitch I’m supposed to be, I could say because he gave me the opportunity?  And took the time to listen?”  There was a small part of Bernie that was pleased to see her harsh remark had landed when she saw Serena wince.  “But the real reason is I over-reacted…” Bernie laughed hollowly, “more than once… he saw something.”

 

“Something?”  Serena saw Bernie reaching for the bottle of wine, “I think you might prefer that one…” she suggested, tipping her head towards the paper wrapped bottle that she’d brought and was still sitting at the end of the coffee table.  “And it’s my apology…”

 

“Oh?” Intrigued, Bernie put the wine back down and picked up the bottle, unwrapping it with interest.  “Oh.”  She looked at Serena with interest.  “Some apology?”

 

“I… didn’t exactly give you much of a chance…”  Serena cleared her throat and tried again, knowing that of all people, Bernie Wolfe would appreciate bluntness.  “It took Raf and Fletch less than a second to work out that you’d been in the same explosion as Michael Granter and John Sommingsby, but I had to have it spelt out to me.  I never thought about what your life as ‘Major Wolfe’ had meant, what it meant for you to be ‘Ms Wolfe’ now.  I just assumed you were...”

 

“Exactly like you?” guessed Bernie, understanding.

 

“Yes, well, not  _ exactly  _ like you.”  Bernie looked at Serena, her lips quirking with amusement at Serena’s emphasis.

 

“Hmm, you’d look terrible in camo…”  Bernie concentrated on pulling away the paper from the very, very good bottle of single malt whisky that constituted Serena’s peace offering.

 

“Yes, well, that’s one difference I’m sure,” responded Serena, wincing when she realised she sounded school-marmish.

 

“And I don’t think you’ve ever been spotted kissing a female locum anaesthetist in the locker room…” continued Bernie, ostensibly focused on opening the bottle to savour the smell of this very, very amazing whisky.

 

“No.  Wait, that was what Dom saw?”

 

“That was what Dom saw.  Want some?” asked Bernie, knowing she was changing the subject but deciding the whisky was worth it.

 

“If you don’t mind sharing, and don’t change the subject!”

 

“whisky first, reliving one of the worst moments of my life second,” declared Bernie, her tears virtually stopped, for now.  “Thank you,” she said, gesturing carefully with the bottle, “unexpected and not necessary, but thank you.”

 

“Of course.  Glasses?”

 

“In the kitchen, I’ll go get them…” and, before Serena could say anything, Bernie had put the bottle down, its paper still clinging to its base, and was gone.

 

* * *

  
  


Moments later she was back, two heavy crystal tumblers in one hand, and a bowl of ice in the other.

 

“That was quick.”

 

“Small flat…” dismissed Bernie glibly as she put them down on the coffee table and once more folded herself neatly into the beanbag, “...ice?”

 

“Thanks.”  Serena watched as Bernie put a couple of cubes of ice in the tumblers and poured generous measures of the golden liquid over them, before accepting the one that was offered to her.

 

“You love her, don’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you ever love Marcus?”  Serena winced when she heard her question aloud, wondering if that was too blunt even for Bernie.

 

“I thought I did…” Bernie watched the ice cubes shift in her glass, “no, that’s not quite right.  I did love Marcus, for much of my marriage, and med school, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t the love of a lover.  It was… like a sister’s love for her brother.”

 

“And Alex?”  Serena cradled the glass in her hand, watching Bernie watch her ice cubes shift and turn as the melted into the amber liquid.

 

“If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.”

 

“Wilfred Owen?” she guessed finally, knowing it was wrong but hoping she was at least on the right lines with her guess.

 

“W H Auden.”  Bernie stood up again and returned to the bookcase, pulling out a book that was battered and clearly well read.  As an afte thought, she picked up the photograph of her team again, and returned to her beanbag with both in her right hand, the glass of whisky still held in her left.  Conscious of Serena’s scrutiny, she sat down quickly, landing neatly on the beanbag, her legs crossed at the ankles, immediately balancing the glass on her knee.  Putting the photograph in her lap, she used both hands to flick through the book, looking for the page she wanted.  “My gran gave me this to me when I got my commission.  It was a brand new paperback, she’d bought it the week before.  Told me to take it with me to every posting until I understood what every poem meant… I think it was her way of telling me not to rush off and do something stupid.”

 

“And did you?”  Serena knew it was a bit of an obvious question given how well thumbed the book was, but Bernie didn’t seem to notice or mind.

 

“Yes.  Every year that went by, every deployment, every posting… I’d come home understanding another poem or two.”  Bernie found the page she wanted and, holding the book open with her thumb, offered it over to Serena, who automatically took it but just held it open, waiting for Bernie to finish her explanation.  “Except that one.”  Bernie looked down at her glass, the ice cubes nearly gone, melted into the whisky, the only clue to their existence was the subtle change to the colour of the now diluted whisky.  “But not anymore.”

 

Silently, Serena looked down and read the sixteen lines whose meaning had elluded Bernie for so long, but no longer.  Reaching the end, she carefully closed the book and put it back on the table, her eyes damp as the meaning hit her, not just in the context of her own experiences and relationships, but in terms of what it meant for Bernie, what it told her about what Bernie had been coping with, without her team, without the Army, or medicine, or her family.

 

“What happens next?”

 

“I’m sorry?” Totally lost, Bernie looked up from the photograph, looking at Serena like she’d grown tentacles or something equally ludicrous.

 

“Your next posting?  What happens to the poetry book?”

 

“There isn’t a next posting…”  Bernie drained her glass and poured herself another, smaller measure, dropping the ice cubes in it after she’d recapped the bottle.  

 

“That sounds like rushing off to do something stupid…”  Serena saw the flash of fire and fight in Bernie’s eyes that she’d seen in the operating theatre when the monitors and screens were showing a battle with life being lost before Bernie was ready to lose.

 

“What exactly do you mean by that?”  Bernie’s voice was hollow and cold, the fire of her ire at being challenged being offset by the cool, logical detachment and icy stillness that Serena recognised as the confidence to cut in theatre, could see would be the courage under fire.

 

“I think it’s time you started fighting.”

 

“For what?”  Bernie’s unspoken thoughts were loud in Serena’s head, ‘Alex is gone’.

 

“For the right to fight the battle that matters.”  Serena raised her glass in Bernie’s direction, “what do you sometimes say?  Shoulder’s back? Stand up straight?”  Bernie smiled in spite of her swirling emotions and still having very little clue what on earth Serena was talking about.  “I think it’s time for you to start fighting for yourself, but I know from experience, as I think you do too, how hard it is to do that with no one in your corner.”

 

“Isn’t it just…” agreed Bernie, mentally preparing herself for whatever was about to come next.

 

“Not anymore.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’d like to be in your corner… if you’ll have me?”

 

“But…”  

 

“No buts.”  Serena waved her glass, reminding Bernie that the ice was melting if they didn’t get on with drinking the whisky soon.  “Here’s to getting your life together, Major Wolfe, one battle at a time.”  

 

In spite of everything, Bernie found Serena’s good humour infectious and moved her glass to clink against her fellow surgeon’s.  “One bloody battle at a time…” she agreed, mirroring Serena as they both knocked back their measures in one which, if she was honest, was a real waste of this very, very good whisky.  But then again… 

 

As Bernie reached for the bottle once more, this time determined that she would actually sip this one sensibly and enjoy it, her eye caught on the photograph still in her lap and she paused.

 

“Is she worth it?”

 

“Yes.  But that’s not the point.”

 

“What is the point?”

 

“I’m worth it.  I’m worth fighting for.”

 

“And that,” observed Serena, taking over the pouring duties, seeing Bernie looking down at the photograph again, this time with a tentative smile on her face, “is the person that I’m looking forward to being friends with… the Bernie that I suspect Alex loves?”

 

“Friends?” asked Bernie finally, looking up with watery but bright eyes, proposing a toast as she accepted her glass from Serena, her eyebrow twitching when she saw how large the measure was.

 

“Friends.”  Serena clinked her glass against Bernie’s.  “Can never have too many of those.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W H Auden's 'The More Loving One':
> 
> Looking up at the stars, I know quite well  
> That, for all they care, I can go to hell,  
> But on earth indifference is the least  
> We have to dread from man or beast.
> 
> How should we like it were stars to burn  
> With a passion for us we could not return?  
> If equal affection cannot be,  
> Let the more loving one be me.
> 
> Admirer as I think I am  
> Of stars that do not give a damn,  
> I cannot, now I see them, say  
> I missed one terribly all day.
> 
> Were all stars to disappear or die,  
> I should learn to look at an empty sky  
> And feel its total dark sublime,  
> Though this might take me a little time.
> 
> [https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/more-loving-one]

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed....


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